


Bumper Cars

by FugalGear



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drabble, M/M, Rape/Non-con References, Sexual Violence, may be triggering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 23:48:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/667858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FugalGear/pseuds/FugalGear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chaos crashes down in waves, but he's never once strayed from the tracks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bumper Cars

Jim laughed when he was being fucked.

The dark-haired man seemed all-too aware of Moran's hungry gaze as he sashayed his hips and peered coyly from under his lashes. Always so subtle, thought Sebastian Moran, when you're asking for it, boss. Jim was prey meant to be consumed, to be feasted on, used, and Moran wanted nothing more than to swallow him up, inch by inch.  
So When Moran grabbed the man and wrestled him to the nearest surface, it was provoked and therefore perfectly justified. He would take Jim hard (savage, mercilessly, like those timid dark-skinned girls, many years ago), basking in the vulnerability of Jim's position. His veins pulsed with the desire, the need to break him into pieces, to rend his limbs apart, and it was so deliciously carnal. Submission. Jim was King, Jim was Moriarty, and Moriarty was God. And he was writhing beneath his grip. 

Jim wiggled and moaned like a cheap whore, Moran was rough and brutal and selfish and it had to hurt, yet Jim laughed with what air he managed to expel from his lungs. That damnable, damnable giggle! Always intersparsed with phrases like, 'ooh, yes, fuck me, Mister Moran,' and Moran felt a bit sick at Jim's laughter because no, that wasn't right, a few minutes ago Jim was struggling and thrashing erratically. Jim was taunting him, and that doubled his rage. Then the words changed, were panicked, and they were, 'Moran, stop, you're hurting me, no, I don't want this,' and Moran felt right again, and he ignored Jim's stifled giggle because those were the words he wanted. They transported him back to those lovely Indian women and how they screamed, screamed sweet music in his ears as he took, took, took.

And Moran would finish, one hand curled in Jim's hair, having cracked the man's head repeatedly against the surface he was pressed against. When he finally stepped away, Jim would turn, drawing back his fist to punch Moran square in the face. Moran merely gave a feral grin, cradling his broken and bleeding nose, and watched Jim walk away, laughing, and fully aroused.


End file.
